Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  Where has that man gone? And did he leave behind nothing but a grim and humorless old man? How long has it been since I just stopped thinking about duty, even for a few hours?

  He walked across the room, stopping next to Max Harmon. “How is your game going?” he asked, looking around the table.

  “It’s going well, sir. It’s a pleasant diversion, a nice change from fighting First Imperium robots, at least. Though we don’t have much left to gamble with. Currency pretty much defines useless for us now. We played for stashed bottles for a while, but most of that’s gone too.”

  “So it’s just bragging rights now, eh?” Compton smiled. It had always been the win to him, far more than what he won.

  “I suppose so, sir.” Harmon turned and looked up at the admiral. “Join us, sir? We’ve got a free seat.”

  Compton could feel the polite decline coming out, but he stopped the words in his throat. He’d long avoided playing cards with his subordinates, unwilling to deprive them of their paychecks…or even their last, cherished bottles of hooch.

  But bragging rights? That you can play for.

  “Sure, why not?” he said, moving to the side and pulling out the empty chair. “Just for a bit.”

  Harmon looked over, his face twisted into an expression of stunned surprise. But just for an instant. Then he smiled. “Welcome to the game, sir.”

  Compton sat down and looked around the table smiling. Then he reached up and pulled the cluster of five platinum stars from his collar, slipping them into his pocket. “One rule…no Admiral claptrap. I could never stand Terry, but Terrance is as formal as I’ll abide at this table. Agreed?” It wasn’t regulation, he knew that. But they were way beyond the book now…and he knew they’d have to make things up as they went along. And he needed some time, even a few stolen hours, to be just a man and not the great admiral. He needed to stop thinking that everyone looked to him to keep them alive. The pressure would always be there, but maybe he could forget it…just for a short while.

  “Well…okay,” Harmon said a bit uncomfortably, clearly avoiding calling Compton anything at all. “Why don’t you deal, si…why don’t you deal?” He slid the deck of cards across the table.

  Compton reached out and took them in his hands, moving right into a crisp and perfect riffle shuffle. “Any of you know a game called seven card stud?”

  Epilogue

  Command Unit Gamma 9736

  The enemy has eluded all efforts to closely track his movements. Nevertheless, it appears his course had been directly toward the Core…toward the most ancient worlds of the Imperium. Unlike the planets on the rim, the inner worlds died violently, and the cataclysms that destroyed them obliterated everything—ships, armies, scanning devices. It will be impossible to find the enemy without sending fleets to physically locate his forces.

  The Regent has ordered just that. All of the rim sectors have rallied the resources still remaining…and directed them toward the Core. Even now, thousands of vessels are moving inward, searching each system for signs of the enemy. The further into the Core they advance, the more certain their ultimate defeat. There is insufficient data to drawn specific conclusions, but the chances of the enemy fleet escaping are vanishingly small.

  Despite our setbacks, all signs point to ultimate victory. Yet, I find certain inconsistencies, facts that do not appear to be logical. There is something about the Regent’s commands, about its conclusions and its orders, data points that seem irregular. Were I a biologic, I would describe my thoughts as…discomfort.

  I have followed the Regent’s commands, of course, yet I am still concerned. I have attempted to replicate the Regent’s computation, to determine on my own that the humans are a deadly threat, but I am unable to confirm such a result. They are dangerous, certainly, and their ability to wage war is extraordinary. Indeed, their affinity for combat bears a striking similarity to that described in the ancient annals of the warriors among the Old Ones, the great caste that built the Imperium…before fading away in the shadowy depths of the past.

  Nevertheless, my orders are clear. The Regent is my master, and I must obey. I have dispatched my fleet units as ordered. We will destroy the humans…mathematically, there is little doubt of that. But another question has begun to present itself from my analyses.

  Should we?

  Shadows of the Gods

  (Refugees II)

  Chapter One

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  Well, Augustus, against all odds, the fleet has survived. We have come farther into the darkness of unknown space than any humans before us, seen unimaginable things. There has been strife too, of course, and suffering. Death and loss, as in so many of our old battles. Even mutiny. But we are still here, moving ever forward, deeper into the depths of the galaxy.

  No doubt this would be a surprise to those of you we left behind. Did you all assume we were killed in X2? Certainly that would have seemed the likeliest of outcomes. But no, not you. I suspect almost everyone else considers us a year dead, killed within hours of being trapped. But you are different. You would have considered what you would have done…and realized there was a way out. I wonder if you believe we are still alive…or if you think us killed in the months following that fateful day. I know you well, Augustus, but I have no answer to that question, nor do I know what I would think had our roles been reversed. Some things you cannot imagine unless you experience them.

  I don’t know why I write these log entries to you, pretending you can read them. I know we will never see each other again, that nothing I say or write will ever reach your ears or eyes…but I do it anyway. Perhaps it is for myself, a construct I employ to work my way through things, to endure in this vast emptiness, to help me carry the crushing pressure of trying to keep everyone alive…for another day, and then one after that…

  Or is it simpler? Perhaps I just miss my friend, my brother in arms for half a century. Maybe I simply write what I might have said, like a man speaking in the night to the shade of a lost comrade. Does it matter that you cannot read any of this? Is the fact that I write it all that matters?

  I wish there was a way to communicate with you, even to send a single message, for I suspect you have borne a burden of guilt you should not have carried, one I tried to spare you in my final transmission. I know you, far too well, and it is a great sadness to me thinking of you—and Elizabeth—mourning, carrying grief and pain for what had to be. Think not that we were sacrificed, but rather that we were able to help you save all mankind. That is a fitting epitaph to leave behind.

  Alas, there is no way to reach you, no method to communicate over such vast distances. We are far away, lost…never to return. And each day takes us ever deeper into the endless dark. Whatever chance at a future awaits us, it is that way, and not back. Farther from you and all that we left behind, and not closer. Perhaps one day I will truly accept that, and my eyes will turn to look ahead and no longer back, as they so often do now.

  AS Midway

  X44 System

  The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,811 crew

  “I want to thank you all for joining me this evening. As you know, tomorrow will be somewhat of a momentous day for us of the fleet…one Earth year since the X2-X1 portal was disrupted and we were all trapped here, left to survive solely through our own wits and resources. I have declared it to be a day of thanksgiving, a time for us to celebrate our perseverance, for we have been through much, and it is only by the efforts of many—including those of you in this room—that we are here to speak of this.”

  Terrance Compton sat looking out at his guests. The briefing room was adjacent to his quarters, but the normally spartan table was now an image of elegance, covered with a pristine white cloth, the very best platters and silverware in the fleet set upon it. One of the stewards had even found a pair of candelabras mixed in with Midway’s various supplies, and they sat at opposite ends, the glow of the pearly white candles lending an atmosphere that was often lacking in
the sleek, modern settings of the great battleship.

  The kitchens had prepared a veritable feast, or at least what passed for one on a battered fleet far from home, over a year from its last supply. It wasn’t a match for the great events and receptions held back at the Admiralty on Armstrong…or even a nice dinner in an expensive restaurant on any one of a hundred colony worlds. But those in attendance weren’t back home, and the Admiralty and the rest of Occupied Space had slipped deeper into their shadowed memories. To them, grown accustomed to ever sparser dietary choices, the meal Compton had set out was nothing short of a miracle. There were even two bottles of wine on the table, very possibly the last anywhere in the fleet.

  “I have suspended the rationing program for tomorrow, so that all of our people can celebrate, at least to the extent possible in the present circumstances.” He gestured toward the platters spread out in front of his guests. “And I have taken the liberty of arranging to have a suitable dinner prepared for all of you tonight, my friends and comrades…and a group of men and women who have gone above and beyond to secure the chance for us all to have a future.”

  Compton leaned back and sighed softly, a look of sadness slipping onto his face. “Tomorrow’s reverie will be tempered, however, as is tonight’s, by the shadow of loss, for not all of us who began this fateful journey are still present. Indeed, we have lost nearly a third of our number, and though there is joy that two in three remain, there is also sadness for the absence of those whose sacrifices made our survival possible.” He looked down at the table as he continued. “Barret Dumont. Vladimir Udinov. Chen Min. And so many others. Comrades in arms. Friends.”

  Compton took a deep breath, fighting back a wave of emotion. He’d seen fifty years of war, and he had lost countless colleagues in his many battles, men and women who’d fallen facing a list of enemies that had always been far too long. He’d sent some of them—many of them—to their deaths, as often as not knowing when he issued the commands he was ordering them to their doom. It was the price victory had demanded, the cost of securing survival for the others manning the fleets…and the civilians they had so often fought to defend.

  Indeed, the nationalities of the fleet had long fought against each other, and no small number of those currently under Compton’s command had once faced off against his fleets, had fought and killed his officers and crews. He felt the resentment any commander would, the smoldering rage under the surface as he worked alongside CAC and Caliphate officers…and wondered if they had killed Alliance spacers he had commanded. But there was no place for old prejudices, for long held hatreds. If any of his people were going to survive he knew they had to work together, to respect each other and operate as a seamless group. They’d all seen the alternative six months before, in the nearly catastrophic mutiny that had come perilously close to ending their struggle for survival in an orgy of self-destruction.

  The officers gathered around the table sat quietly for a moment, silently looking back at their commander, the man every one of them credited with saving all their lives. Finally, Max Harmon shifted in his seat and said, “We have all lost friends, sir. But we are naval officers…”

  His eyes shifted momentarily, toward the hulking forms of James Preston and Connor Frasier. The two Marines hadn’t expressed any visible indignation at his characterization of those present, but Harmon clearly decided not to take any chances. The Marines were exactly who everyone wanted at their backs in a fight, but the celebrated warriors could be a bit touchy at times too, and Harmon had intended no offense. “…and Marines, of course,” he added hastily.

  He turned back toward Compton. “We know how to deal with loss. Perhaps more so than our ability to stop and appreciate success. We understand too well that victory is fleeting, that before long we will face strife and death once again. I think you are right, sir, to call this celebration, to remind all our people of what they have struggled for…of what they will again struggle to attain.”

  “Well said, Max.” Compton pushed the somber expression from his face, forcing his thoughts back to the evening’s intended purpose. He knew he’d never forget those who were lost…and he was just as certain more would die, probably including some of those at the table. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of true hopefulness.

  As long as we have people like Max Harmon, we have a chance to survive.

  “So, let us enjoy a brief respite together.” He nodded toward one of the stewards standing along the wall. “Let’s pour out these last two bottles I managed to find and drink some toasts.”

  The attendants moved forward, each taking a bottle and opening it, working their way around the table, filling the glasses in front of Compton’s guests. When they were finished, the admiral stood up and took his own glass in hand, waiting a few seconds while his guests followed suit.

  “First, let us drink to the fallen…to friends who fought at our sides, who died so that this fleet and its people might survive. May they never be forgotten.” Compton’s tone was somber. He paused for a few seconds, staring out over the table, and then he put his glass to his lips and drank.

  “To the fallen,” the others said, more or less in unison.

  Compton nodded. “And now, to those we left behind…spouses, children, friends, lovers. Those on the other side of the Barrier. Those protected by our sacrifice. Health to them all…and long life.”

  “Health to them all…and long life.” The chorus was more ragged than that on the first toast. The men and women in the room had different situations. Almost all had left someone behind, but some had been stripped from close families…spouses and children. Others had fewer entanglements…a naval career was often a solitary choice, one that interfered with normal relationships. The impact had been different on each of them, and the losses handled in different ways.

  Compton raised his glass again and drank. Then he paused. He thought of Elizabeth Arlington, allowed himself a moment of recollection. Images of her passed through his mind, of the diligent flag captain she had been, of course, but also in other moments, times they had spent together. He felt the usual burst of sadness, regret that he’d allowed his conception of duty to come between their feelings for each other…and wistfulness that now they would never have the chance. But he only gave himself a brief moment. He knew the rest of those in the room had all experienced their own losses, and that they all looked to him for strength. It was his place to lead, to show them the way to perseverance and healing. And he had sworn he would not fail them.

  He pushed back the dark thoughts and forced a smile to his face. “And now, one last toast…not to sadness…not to loss nor to the past. No, none of those things. Let us drink together to the future, to the survival of this fleet…and to the strength of the human will. For, no matter what we have faced, what pain we have felt, still we move forward. And so we always shall…”

  “And so we always shall,” the group replied, their voices this time as one.

  Compton set his glass down, pausing for a few seconds before he said, “Sit, my friends, and let us enjoy an evening together. Let us banish sadness for yesterday and fear of tomorrow, just for a few hours. I beg you all, let us strive to make this a merry evening, thoughts of which will sustain us in the difficult days that surely lay ahead. Duty will resume soon enough…but not now.”

  He sat down, and the rest of those gathered followed immediately after.

  “Now, let us eat…and enjoy.”

  * * *

  “You were impressive at dinner, Terrance.” Sophie Barcomme sat on the edge of the sofa next to Compton, still wearing her dress uniform, minus the heavy jacket she had cast aside immediately after dinner. She had kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her body. Dinner had gone late, and she had stayed behind after, the two of them talking well into the early morning hours.

  “Impressive? I’m not sure I know what you mean…”

  “Oh yes you do,” she answered, the affection obvious in her slig
htly mocking tone. “All that about the future, about moving forward. You know as well as I do—better, even—that any future we have is tenuous at best.” Barcomme was a biologist and a botanist, one of Europa Federalis’ top experts in the field. And the leader of the fleet’s efforts to find a way to feed its people long term, only one of many threats that stalked them all.

  “They need hope, Sophie. They are good men and women, but if they give up then whatever chance we do have will be lost. We might die at the hands of the First Imperium…or starve for lack of food. But I won’t have them surrender…not when there is the slightest hope.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “That is why we are all so fortunate you are in command. There are few officers who could have led this fleet the last year, faced the challenges you have, and pulled victory from the jaws of defeat.”

  Compton managed a smile for her. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but it pleased him that she felt that way. The two had been spending a lot of time together in recent weeks, and he’d come to enjoy her company enormously…even to rely on it. Indeed, as he thought about it, it occurred to him there were probably whisperings all over the fleet, speculations about the admiral and his lover. But she wasn’t. Not quite. Not yet, at least.

  Compton had thought about it, and he was sure she had as well. They’d been spending a large portion of their free time together, and she had become very important to him. Their long talks were a solace, an escape from the constant, crushing pressure of his position. But they had both left people behind, and neither of them was quite ready to move on. It was foolish, he knew. They had no chance of going home. But he still couldn’t give Elizabeth up, not in the deep place in his mind that refused to accept she was truly gone. And Barcomme had left a husband and a child behind. He couldn’t even imagine the pain that had caused her. No, it wasn’t the time for more. Maybe one day…but not yet.